Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Love On The Rock	By : sheherazade Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 7113 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of his heirs or successors or anything to do with him. I earn nothing from this story.

Chapter List
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It is 8.55 on Wednesday morning. Peering out of my flyblown bay window, I observe a tiny black-clad figure weaving down the hill, some kind of Muggle instrument in her ears which causes her to sway her hips as she walks. She appears to be singing and her small hands flutter rhythmically in sympathy with the tune. I frown when I observe that one of the hands is flourishing a lit cigarette, from which she takes periodic drags, stopping short of my front door and grinding it out with the heel of her boot. And really, what is she wearing?
On opening the front door I sweep her from head to toe with my eyes. When I mentioned that more a formal mode of dress may be appropriate for her work here, this was not what I had in mind. She appears to have made a minimal effort – the peroxide shock is marginally tamed by a hairband and she wears a tight black leotard, tight black miniskirt, fishnets and knee-length high-heeled lace-up boots. She looks like something I might see…well, I might have done more than see, actually…in Knockturn Alley.
I reach out and tap the tawdry gem in her nose. “Remove it,” I order.
She takes the round wired things out of her ears and stares at me. “It’s my piercing,” she says dumbly. “I didn’t think you’d have a problem with it. Sir.”
“I have. Take it out.”
Pouting slightly, she unscrews the monstrosity, following up with the tarnished-looking ring in her lower lip. Unsightly wounds are now visible. I have a salve for that, but I don’t suppose I should let her have any.
“That protruding lip doesn’t suit you, Miss O’Riordan,” I note, leading her up the stairs to her first day of honest labour.
I refrain from comment on her appearance for now, as there is too much to be done.
“Miss O’Riordan, in the kitchen there is a Mug….an appliance called a cooker. I wonder if you could demonstrate its uses for me.”
She stares at me, the blurred kohl around her eyes stretching and cracking.
“I know you weren’t allowed any technology but…a cooker! Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I flash her a tight smile. She shakes her head and flits into the kitchen, showing me how to light the ‘hob’ to warm and boil things, and the ‘oven’ to roast and bake. Once she has turned the dials a few times, I feel I understand and send her to the Co-Operative Shop to buy some groceries. I wish her luck. Despite the name of the place, I find the attitude of most of the staff there highly unco-operative. It’s a local shop for local people, seemingly.
She returns and we spend the morning unravelling the mysteries of telephones and toasters. Tomorrow I will hit her with the serious business of the keyboard-screen thing…computer, is it? But I imagine that even she, with her bright Muggle brain, will find that a challenge.
“This has been most enlightening,” I tell her, prodding at the buttons of my telephone and raising my eyebrows as she removes my questing fingers from the 9. That was a rather familiar gesture. The touch of her fingers combined with the cheap-trick outfit she is wearing sends a rather unwelcome message to my crotch. I squash it down and frown at her.
“You don’t want to be calling the emergency services by accident, Sir,” she explains shyly. “You know. 999.”
I didn’t. But I do now. She is trying to be helpful. She is…sweet. But I am hungry, and not just for a quick squeeze of those shapely breasts straining against the tight elastic of the leotard. Change the subject, Severus.
“It is time for you to prepare lunch. Use the cooker.” I point towards the kitchen, hoping she will scurry immediately from my line of aroused vision.
“But…do I not get…a lunch break? Sir?” she falters.
“You get lunch. If you make it. We will eat together,” I tell her, unsure of her point.
“Oh. It’s just that…I sort of arranged to meet a friend. At the Cove.”
I knit my brow. She wants time off in the middle of the working day? Highly irregular, surely.
“Then un-arrange it.”
“But!” she blusters, clearly torn between a dread of confronting me and a desire to get her own way on this issue. She will not. She may as well cede to me now.
“But?”
“You know…like, industrial legislation…and suchlike.”
“What a powerful argument, Ruby. ‘Industrial legislation and suchlike’. Am I supposed to take that seriously?” Am I? Are there rules about this kind of thing? If there are, Ruby is fortunately just as vague as I am on the issue.
She subsides, with a meek, “I don’t know, Sir.” She wrings her hands slightly, sighs and asks me what I want for lunch.
“Surprise me. Within reason,” I tell her.
Ruby is no cook, it seems, for what she surprises me with is barely edible; some kind of bastardised version of a croque monsieur, dripping with grease and half-burnt.
“Do you cook much at home, Ruby?” I ask her, pulling a long string of molten cheese with my fork.
“Not really. We have takeaways mainly. Chips. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Then surely you have to be careful to replace the nutrients you are missing. Chips will hardly do it.”
“Nah.” She looks embarrassed. “I know my diet’s rubbish. I don’t like green stuff though.”
I tut at her, pushing the plate aside. “I can’t eat this, Ruby. Make something else. Preferably not cremated this time.”
She looks fit to stamp her little foot but I hold her eyes and the fight drains out of her.
She returns with a plate of salad leaves, tomatoes, cucumbers and the like, scattered with tinned tuna. This is at least something she could not go far wrong with, and I nod my approval and eat it.
“Aren’t you having any?”
“Green stuff and fish. Yeah, right. Can I go outside for a fag?”
“A…fag?”
“Cigarette!”
“Oh. No, you may not. I disapprove of smoking.”
“I can’t last the whole day!”
“Of course you can. I can. So you can.”
She clenches her fists. “I’m allowed to use the bathroom, at least?”
“Obviously.” She stomps out of the room and I watch her, amused. She entertains me.
I set her to washing and cleaning tasks for the rest of the day, which she completes uncomplainingly, even breaking mid-bath scrub to make me an unsolicited cup of coffee. She seems to need approval, which is always good to know. At one point she makes a hesitant approach at conversation, though I head her off at the pass. I didn’t employ her to witter at me while I’m trying to work. But when she leaves for the day, I catch myself looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow. I doubt she returns the sentiment though; those fluttery hands are red raw with all the scrubbing they have done.
*
I leave the door on the latch for Ruby the next day. I am absorbed in a delicate stage of brewing up in my forbidden eyrie and do not wish to be disturbed. I have left a list of instructions for her tacked to the door.
When I descend to the main room shortly before lunchtime, she looks up from the televisual apparatus she is frowningly trying to operate and her face broadens into a smile.
“I brought you doughnuts,” she says, pointing to a paper bag that is almost transparent with the grease oozing from its contents.
“Miss O’Riordan, I appear to have mislaid a valuable bottle of…chemicals. I wonder if you could…”
“Look for it?” She hops to attention straight away; most gratifying. “Of course, Sir. Where would you like me to start?”
“Try the bins,” I suggest, wondering if she will protest. Not many young women would willingly root through the rubbish. But she does not. She takes herself outside to the vile backyard where rotten curry and stale potions ingredients combine to form a stench beyond the tolerance-level of most. I take advantage of her absence to lose the doughnuts and examine the television, which is depicting a pattern of random dots, rather disconcertingly.
I am none the wiser by the time she returns with my bottle of erumpent fluid. I hope she didn’t spill any; it’s highly dangerous. No, it seems intact. More than I can say for her, though; she is dishevelled and less than fragrant.
“Go and wash,” I direct and she skips off, looking back at me with a crestfallen face when she notices the discarded doughnuts. Did she think I was going to eat them?
When she returns, I order her to scrub the grate. I am expecting a visitor by floo later and Narcissa Malfoy is very fussy about the fireplaces she will floo to.
Ruby kneels on the hearth rug and gets to work. I cannot help but notice, as I peer over the periodical I am annotating at my desk, that her pose is somewhat provocative. As she scrubs, her firm, round arse is presented to my view in its full glory, tightly outlined in that indecent miniskirt, which only barely conceals her feminine treasures. Fishnetted thighs are clamped together and her bottom and hips sway as she works away, emitting little sighs and grunts of effort. Gods, this is… My eyes glaze over and the periodical falls limply from my fingers. My cock is jumping longingly; the artful positioning of the desk is a cause for some gratitude, especially when she turns her head – nose smudged rather sweetly – around to me, as if she senses that I am watching her. Minx. She’s going to get something she hasn’t bargained for if she doesn’t…. I think I may have to leave the room.
*
Approximately an hour later, the newly gleaming grate roars into life and I have to command Ruby out of the room and into the kitchen post haste. Shutting the door behind her, I cross my small hallway and make a pretence of admitting a visitor up the stairs, though in reality Narcissa Malfoy is already standing in my unimpressive living room.
“Gods, Severus, is this the best the Dark Lord could do for you?” she says disdainfully, her nose wrinkled. “It’s a hovel.”
“Beggars – and fugitives – can’t be choosers. I daresay Draco is better catered for.”
“He is well.”
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“Do you have wine?”
“I do. Ruby!” I call and my little Muggle House Elf appears at my elbow. “Kindly uncork a bottle of the Merlot and bring us two glasses.”
Ruby blinks at the presence of a sophisticated lady in my rooms and slinks off. When she reappears, Narcissa sizes her up frankly and sneers.
“Your submissive appears to be in need of medical attention,” she notes, and Ruby gasps and pops her eyes. “What is this gaping hole in her nose? Either you have lowered your standards or Muggle life has affected your tastes.” Ruby looks wildly at me, expecting me to defend her.
“Ruby is not my mistress, Narcissa, simply my employee. And I don’t care for your condescending tone. Please refrain from unnecessary comment and stick to the matter at hand.”
Ruby looks delighted at my scolding manner, but her face falls when I tell her that she is no longer required and may vacuum the stair carpet while Narcissa and I talk.
“What news of the war?” I ask eagerly. Narcissa is my sole link to the Wizarding World and I am anxious to hear her news.
“The Dark Lord has made substantial gains in the West and Wales. Potter and his army have taken some casualties, including Avery and Rosier, but they are running out of ideas and without Dumbledore they lack power. Lucius is out of Azkaban; the Dementors set him free. He sends his regards.”
I take a swallow of wine and smile insincerely. None of this is what I want to hear. I want to hear that the Dark Lord has been destroyed, so I can contact the Order and tell them about Dumbledore’s letter. Then I will finally be free. I can’t stay here much longer.
We chat desultorily as we finish our wine, then Narcissa insists on returning her own glass to the kitchen, to save Ruby’s feet, as she says, though I suspect her of ulterior motives. I move behind the door and eavesdrop as Narcissa confronts Ruby on the stairs.
“Don’t think you’ve any chance with him,” she says icily. “I saw your eyes when you looked at him…you’ve seen something you like, haven’t you? And he likes submissive, sweet young things like you…but he’ll never look twice at a…” She catches herself short of saying ‘Muggle’ and changes to “…silly little tart like you.”
Then she sweeps back into the room and floos off. After the ash has settled, I return to the kitchen to check on Ruby. She is standing over the sink with a large carving knife in her hand, her sleeve rolled up to reveal a number of raised white scars and a few recent red slashes. How has she acquired these disfiguring marks? I am about to move forward and take a closer look when she senses my presence, drops the knife and wheels around, tugging her sleeve down sharply.
“Can I go home now?” she blurts. “It’s after five.”
I nod and follow her slight figure as it crosses the floor and escapes on to the staircase, shrinking under my intense scrutiny. She is a puzzle. I have a mind to solve her.
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Love On The Rock